“You can go back to your station, now, Lola,” he uttered, in a calm, even tone. “If I wish your presence, I will signal you. Now, sir,” he added, as the woman disappeared from view, “I can attend to you. But first, let’s see if there be any need of dressing your wounds. A man at my time of life dislikes unnecessary trouble. As I told you, if you _are_ Jasper Morton, or indeed, any other than one of two persons, there will be no need of dressing your hurts, because, in that case, you must be _disposed of_, before you have a chance to make known what you have discovered concerning this place and its inmates.” “You mean to—to _murder_ me?” “Exactly—that is the vulgar expression of what I mean.” “Why did you take me in here then?” “Because—first, you seemed very curious to learn what was going on inside; entirely too curious to suit my ideas of propriety. So I shot you, and I meant to end your pryings forever, too. But when I bent over you, to see if you were really dead, something in your face struck me, and I fetched you here to see what truth there was in the surmise. Now tell me—are you Jasper Morton; is that your real name?” “No.” “Good! then what is? Remember, that the truth alone can avail you, if any thing. Of course you can not guess the names that run in my mind. Speak out—what is your real name?” Morton’s lips parted and his throat twitched, but he could not speak. The knowledge that his own lips might condemn him, was horrible. The resemblance that the old man had been struck with, might after all be mere fancy. “Spare me—I will take any oath—will be your slave, your dog, if you spare my life,” he muttered, great drops of cold perspiration starting out over his forehead. “I take no man’s oath,” was the cold reply. “Speak out—or I will believe you lie in saying your true name is not Jasper Morton and reward you with this,” and as he spoke, the cold muzzle of a revolver at full cock touched the outlaw’s temple. “Take it away—I will speak, if you only lower that!” gasped the wounded man, shrinking back. “Very well. Be quick.” “My name is James—James Mestayer,” falteringly. “You are speaking the truth?” coldly demanded the old man, keenly eying the trembling wretch. “Yes—the truth, so help me—” “Never mind. Don’t exult too soon. You had a brother?” “Yes—Thomas. He died—was killed in California.” “What was your father’s and your mother’s names?” “James and Lucinda.” “You had an uncle who married a sister to your mother?” “Yes—father’s brother Albert. And you—you are the man!” eagerly cried the outlaw. “Yes, I am Albert Mestayer, your father’s brother. In your face I saw what James was when young. That was what stayed my hand. I believed that you was my nephew, either James or Thomas, though I had not seen either for near twenty years. Then you can guess—but no, you were too young then, and I made James promise never to tell you the black story,” muttered the old man, half to himself.